


Change of Plans

by Severina



Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Community: sexy_right
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-08
Updated: 2012-04-08
Packaged: 2017-11-03 06:11:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/378185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That scar had been the first thing he'd kissed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Change of Plans

John always knew how his life would go. He'd keep on putting away the bad guys until they force him to stop. Then they'd send him over to McGinty's for the retirement party and the gold watch and the sarcastic speeches from the junior detectives until he got drenched in beer and stumbled his way home. 

That's where his imagination always failed him. He can see the job, always the job, and he can picture that damn drunken night at the pub. But the rest of his life, years and years of it, without the shield? Alone in his shitty little house with the leaking roof and the crack in the foundation? His mind always blanked when he tried to picture how he'd possibly spend all those days, all those endless nights.

Then he got caught up in yet another bullshit scheme by yet another two-bit thief with delusions of fucking grandeur, and when the dust settled and the smoke cleared he somehow ended up with some scrawny, motor-mouthed computer geek living in his house. Eating his food.

Sleeping in his bed.

John shifts under the covers, turns to his side to watch the kid sleep. Matt's brow is furrowed, like even when the kid is dreaming he's got problems to solve, and John can't resist reaching over to run a finger gently over the creases in his forehead until Matt's lips part and he sighs and those wrinkles smooth out. He lets his finger continue its trajectory, tracing the faint, pale scar between those bushy eyebrows, the soft barely-there touch still making Matt shiver in his sleep. 

He can still see the kid, propped up on the bed next to him in the hospital, his leg swathed in bandages and upended in one of those pulleys that effectively left the kid trapped on the thin mattress 24/7. The morphine they gave him at the scene might have had the effect of mellowing him out, but whatever they gave him the next day only served to increase his verbosity, and John hadn't even thought that was possible. He'd talked about the doctors, his upcoming surgery, Medicare, the pharmaceutical industry and generic medication – by the time he got to the Bush administration's myriad fuck-ups John was almost willing to shoot himself _again_ if it would serve to get Matt to shut the fuck up so he could rest. 

He'd tried staring blankly at the mustard yellow wall, trying to mentally run through the Mets batting averages to block Matt out, but the kid's voice still filtered through.

"… and they say I may need pins in it, that'll totally suck, it'll ping on metal detectors and shit, I'll always be getting pulled out of line. Not that I actually go through many metal detectors, but you never know when they're going to start putting them in, they're always trying to big brother us these days, you know?" 

John remembers there was a pause then, and he'd thought that maybe the kid had finally run down, but Matt had just been taking a breath.

"Have you ever been in the hospital before?" Matt had asked. John had actually opened his mouth to answer, but there was no need. "Of course you have, you're like all supercop saving the world and blowing shit up and shooting yourself in the… yeah, I've only been once. Fell off my bike and cracked my head open when I was like… five? Five or six, it was my first two-wheeler, my mom just about flipped her shit. That's how I got this," Matt had said, and John had glanced over in time to see the hand that wasn't attached to IV tubing gesture to the faded scar between his brows. 

That scar had been the first thing he'd kissed, he remembers.

Not then. _Then_ he had finally realized that the kid was rambling – well, rambling more than usual – because he was nervous as fuck about his upcoming surgery, and John had levered himself out of his own shitty hospital bed and shuffled to the bathroom to fetch the kid some tepid tap water. He'd made Matt drink it, and then he'd squeezed the kid's shoulder and reassured him that everything would be fine, and the kid had smiled at him and nodded and then he shut up. Maybe it helped.

The kiss had come later, in the little sun-washed kitchen just down the hall. He hadn't known he was going to do it. He only knew that he'd wanted to kiss the damn kid for a long time – hell, since Baltimore – and the want had somehow morphed into a _need_. He felt like a drowning man needing oxygen, a thirsty man needing water in the desert. The need was something irresistible, undeniable. And then he didn't think about it anymore, he just did it. Story of his life.

He couldn't feel the scar beneath his lips, but he imagined he could. And Matt had stopped his running objections on the petroleum content of John's dishwashing detergent, had frozen with his hands still submerged in the sudsy water. John had just enough time to think "this was a really bad idea" before there was water drenching his counters and Matt's warm wet hands bracketing his face, tugging him down and pressing their lips together and it became the best idea he's ever had.

Not that it’s always smooth sailing. Matt likes to push the envelope and John is set in his ways, and sometime the clash that results is nothing short of monumental. But mostly, they fit. 

The same way they fit in this bed, bought new six weeks ago, right before Matt moved permanently out of the little storage room slash spare bedroom that he'd been using for the past three months. A fresh start for both of them.

John realizes that somewhere in his musings he's let his finger trail down Matt's cheekbone, has tucked the shaggy hair behind Matt's ear and cupped his hand around the slope of Matt's warm shoulder. He wants more – wants to continue that path, slip his hand down Matt's side and around to the curve of his ass, pull him closer and wake him with a kiss, carefully tug Matt's leg over his thigh and use his fingers to make Matt keen and pant and squirm beneath the sheets. 

But Matt mumbles something unintelligible, tugs the blanket over his shoulder. And he knows the kid was up late last night, knows because he found him at two a.m. slumped at his desk with about a thousand dialogue boxes blinking on his monitors and a streaming line of incomprehensible one's and zero's and squiggle marks scrolling in the background. Matt doesn't have to punch a time clock, doesn't have anywhere he has to be, so John reluctantly pulls his hand away. He gives himself permission to card his fingers through Matt's shiny mop of hair before he drags himself out of the warm cocoon of the covers, then finds himself smiling as he makes his way silently to the bathroom.

He still wants to work hard at the job, put away those bad guys. But now that he's got someone to come home to, the retirement part doesn't sound so bad anymore, either.


End file.
